do your research
by what a lovely way to burn
Summary: — in which our favourite high-functioning sociopath and doctor get together in many, many ways. collection of shorts. in progress.
1. to do list

_**author's notes:** i blame pinterest. pinterest is very handy, because one can blame many things of all different natures on it and it always somehow makes sense_.

* * *

221b is really too quiet. Sherlock is "bored" again, though he's had four clients in the last hour — all of which he'd sent off with a reprimand for, quote unquote, "wasting his time."

"What time?" John asks from his chair next to Sherlock's. "I don't recall you doing anything at all productive today."

"As _I_ recall, you haven't left the flat today either."

John protests, "I made tea, you wanker. You're welcome. At least I got up from my established piece of furniture. But what _'time'_ —" he made the bunny ears "— were they wasting?"

"So they weren't wasting time," drawls Sherlock. "Every one of the cases were mundane enough even for the police; I was preserving my brain cells — and yours."

John frowns. "I wasn't aware I had extra brain cells to be preserved." Sherlock just _looks_ at John. "Right," he says, flushing a bit. "Of course I don't. How silly of me."

"Quite." Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin in his normal thinking pose. "I had a to-do list around here somewhere," he murmurs. "But it seems to have gone missing. I don't know how; my desk is very organised."

"Sherlock." It's John's turn to look at Sherlock with that disappointed 'are you really that stupid' look. "Your desk is the complete opposite of 'organised.'"

The consulting detective ignores him. "Help me look," he demands as he jumps up from the sofa.

John grumbles good-naturedly as he allows himself to be pulled out of his chair, but he doesn't protest or refuse. He knows it's pointless to argue with Sherlock.

Sherlock _always_ wins.

•

"Er...Sherlock?" John holds up a piece of scrap paper. "This it?"

"Is it dated correctly?" Sherlock asks from the kitchen. "If the date's right, it, by default, is my to-do list from today."

John scans the paper. The handwriting is tiny and written in a pencil that is obviously — oh dear, he's starting to sound like Sherlock — close to being out of lead, as the markings are faint and barely readable. The spiky scrawl is unmistakable, though; it's definitely a to-do list of Sherlock's. "Yeah, the date's right."

"What's it say I'm to do today?"

Squinting at the paper scrap, John reads, "'Number one: John.'" He freezes. "Uh. Sherlock?"

"Mm?" the detective hums questioningly.

"Sherlock, what the hell is this supposed to mean?"

"Really, John," chastises Sherlock. "You've spent enough time around me to know what I mean by that."

"Yes, but —"

"If you're going to have a sexual identity crisis, can you please hurry it up? I have things — or one thing, anyway — to do, and the more time the better."


	2. falling

**_author's notes:_**_ okay, well, angst. oops. i'll try to write something happier next time, but i just read a bunch of sad fics set after trf and this just happened. #sorrynotsorry_

* * *

"I can't do this without you, Sherlock," he whispers into the night. The wind whistles between the two buildings that seem to be closing in around him on all sides, despite the clear streetlights on both ends of the alley.

_Do what?_ it seems to ask as it tousles the hair that has definitely not been washed recently — or combed. It sneaks between his collar and the skin on the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand on end.

"Everything," he chokes. "_Anything_."

•

John finally understands why Sherlock referred to his body as "transport." His own body refuses to obey his commands half the time — not that he needs it to, really. He doesn't step foot out of the flat. Hasn't for thirty-five days.

His body isn't important anymore.

His mind — or, more specifically, his memory — is where he spends most of his time. Reminiscing of days past, cursing himself for not spotting signs that Sherlock was anything but satisfied with his life, cursing himself more for not seeing them even now.

Cursing Sherlock for being so bloody Selfish as to leave John alone in the world full of idiots who didn't understand that he just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts and not be disturbed with trivial matters such as eating or taking care of himself.

_Oh, Sherlock. Is this how you feel?_

_Felt_, his traitorous brain is quick to remind him.

"Fuck you." John isn't sure whether he's addressing Sherlock or the voice inside his head.

•

Sherlock fell.

John is still falling.


	3. hospital corners

**_author's_**_ **notes:**_ _apparently i should clean my room more? that's the reason this story was born, so you can either thank my messy room or hate it for giving you this nonsense_.

* * *

Sherlock was pouting. That wasn't anything new. This time, however, was different in that he actually had something worth pouting to pout about.

John had promised him a kiss for every item he owned that he put in its respective place instead of leaving it out around the flat in various spots it didn't belong.

"I'm sure this is blackmail," Sherlock complained for the fifth time since he'd began about thirty-five minutes ago.

John looked amused. "I don't think it's blackmail if you like it."

"I don't like _it_," Sherlock spat. "I'm only doing this for the reward."

Silently pointing Sherlock over to the experiment on the kitchen table — he thought it had something to do with frozen maggots — John said, "But you like the reward, don't you?"

Sherlock didn't smile, but his mouth softened a bit in his version of one. "I do. God help me, but I do."

•

Another hour or so later, John made Sherlock begin on everyday household chores he never deigned to do, such as washing the dishes left over from lunch and making their bed. (It was actually Sherlock's bed, as well as his room, but since they were sleeping together in both senses, it didn't make sense to be in separate rooms.)

Sherlock complained and pouted and sulked and nearly worked himself into a huge strop, but John worked the usual magic and snogged him until he was a pink-cheeked, rumpled puddle of consulting detective. John almost told him he was adorable, but thought better of it. He didn't want to send Sherlock into another tantrum.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, had pretty much no idea how to do any of the most basic duties. He poured half the bottle of dish soap into the sink and then turned the water on as cold as it would go. Then he captured John in a mighty snog and promptly forgot about the running faucet.

He remembered when his feet, bare as usual, detected water on the floor. Pulling away from John hurriedly, and thanking gods he didn't believe in that the blond was faced away from the sink, he made some excuse for John to go find something in his room — that wasn't really there — while he cleaned up the mess.

When John re-entered the kitchen, the floor was sparkling clean, the dishes were on the drying rack, and, though he didn't discover until later, there were three rolls of sopping wet paper towels in the garbage.

He rewarded Sherlock with another snog, and the detective made sure that the faucet wasn't on before melting into the kiss.

•

John had to show Sherlock how to make the bed. Being a doctor, he always made it with hospital corners, so he demonstrated how to tuck and crease with military precision and medical efficiency. Then he promptly pulled all the sheets off the bed into a heap and left Sherlock to his task.

_What was this nonsense?_ Sherlock griped to himself. _What's the point of "making your bed" if you're merely going to get back in it within an average of twelve hours?_

He picked up the fitted bottom sheet from the pile on the floor. It was a deep purple colour — _erotic_, his mind supplied, _according to the masses_ — and made of a silky fabric that always felt cool to the touch. When John had first seen his sheets, somewhere in the second month of living together _(thirty-six days, to be exact)_, he'd shaken his head and fondly called Sherlock a "spoiled, rich ponce."

It was fine until it was time to put on the top sheet. Sherlock had watched avidly as John did the hospital corners _(how could he not? The man's arse was delectable and had been pointing straight at Sherlock as he bent over to tuck the sheet)_, but his mind got distracted by the slide of silk against silk and produced delightful Mind Palace images of John in their bed with the top sheet waterfalling down his bare _(toned)_ chest.

Slipping through the front door of his Mind Palace, Sherlock went through the actions on autopilot. His fantasy John continued to produce the most erotic imaginary scene Sherlock had ever witnessed, and he was breathing heavily when the bed was finished and he finally left the Mind Palace with a longing glance back at his beautiful John.

When he opened his eyes and resurfaced in the real world, John was calling to him from the sitting room. "Tea?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, sure his face was bright red. "Yes, please," he called back.

With one more careful look at the bed — not as nice as when John did it, but that was to be expected, because John was perfect — Sherlock exited the bedroom to go see if maybe John would be willing to reenact his fantasy.

•

Tea was amazing, as usual. Sherlock swore John made the best tea he'd ever had, but John maintained that all he did was pour hot water over teabags and add the sugar the way he knew Sherlock liked it.

"How did today go, then?" John asked from the sofa. His laptop was open on his lap, and from the coloured glow reflected in his eyes and on his face, Sherlock deduced that he was looking at his blog page.

"Don't tell me you're going to blog about this," he said, slightly irritated. Was that all today had been about — John wanting a story to tell his readers? Had Sherlock just been a tool for the general public's amusement?

"Thought about it, yeah." John's fingers _(short, strong, beautiful)_ drummed on his computer thoughtfully.

"Don't," Sherlock snapped. "When we aren't solving crimes, our lives are private. Understood?"

John shut his computer and rose from the sofa to perch himself on the arm of Sherlock's armchair. "I won't share anything you don't want me to," he promised before leaning down to capture Sherlock's mouth with his.

•

Ten minutes later, John's hair stuck up in all directions, thanks to Sherlock's roving fingers. It made him look somewhat like a hedgehog, but Sherlock thought it looked deliciously messy and wanted to continue running his hands through it. "What do you say we go mess up that freshly-made bed of ours?"

"Only if you make it again next time," Sherlock said truthfully, not even attempting sarcasm.

John chuckled, and the noise sounded like home to Sherlock. He gave Sherlock an Eskimo kiss. "I think that can be arranged."

* * *

_bonus scene:_

The two men tumbled onto the bed, still attached at the lips. The amount of clothes they wore had rapidly decreased as they made their way from the sitting room to their bedroom.

John, down to just his pants, fumbled for the top edge of the sheet. A second later came his bewildered voice, tinged a bit with hysterical laughter. "Sherlock. Sherlock, did you...did you put hospital corners on _all four corners_?"

_Had he?_ Sherlock blinked rapidly several times. He'd been rather distracted by Mind Palace John at that time. "There is a possibility," he allowed reluctantly, though his mouth twitched.

John had rolled to face away and his shoulders were shaking.

"John?" Sherlock was instantly alarmed. Was John crying?

"God, you adorable idiot," gasped John as he turned his head. Though tears were streaming down his face, he wore a sappy grin and he was gasping for breath to continue —

"Laughing? John, you're _laughing_?" But even as he accused his lover of laughing at him, Sherlock's own lips turned up at the corners. This reminded him of what he'd done to all four corners of the bed, and soon both men were in stitches.

John rolled back over. "Come here, you great berk," he said as he stretched an arm out to pull Sherlock closer to him. "You're ridiculous and I love you."

Sherlock froze. They hadn't come close to the "L" word yet, and to be quite frank, he was terrified of saying it. But John had just blurted it out — even if he hadn't quite realised yet what he'd said — and Sherlock was hard-pressed to not say it back.

So he did.

He wrapped an arm around John, and buried his nose in John's neck, and told his John _(God, he loved thinking about John as _his _[he was]__)_, "I love you, too."


	4. predictions

_**author's notes:**_ _this chapter is not as innocent as former ones. but not explicit_.

* * *

Sherlock knows what will happen when he and John end up in bed together after all they've been through the past three years. John will kiss him, as slowly as if it's the first time they've done this, and they will make their way down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom, still attached at the lips, and they will fall onto the bed as soon as John strips it of all but the fitted sheet. John will undress Sherlock, admire his alabaster skin in the moonlight streaming through the window, and then he will take Sherlock, rocking into his willing body tenderly, brushing kisses against his brow the way he did the night he took Sherlock's virginity.

And when they tire of the soft, gentle coupling, John will flip Sherlock over. And he will see.

He will see everything that Sherlock has tried to keep from him since he returned, and he will pity Sherlock and treat him like glass that may shatter at any moment. He will most likely cry, the silly romantic, and Sherlock will have no idea what to do so he'll creep away, and John will be left to think that Sherlock doesn't care about him at all.

The end result wouldn't be so bad if John knew just how deep Sherlock's feelings run, but he doesn't. Because Sherlock doesn't know how to show them, and he's afraid John isn't even looking.

* * *

It turns out to be almost exactly like Sherlock predicts. They return from a post-case celebration dinner at Angelo's, where they had been pried with delicious food and wine and dessert, all free of charge for Angelo's "favourite couple." John puts the kettle on to make tea, but he quickly forgets about it in favour of snogging Sherlock senseless.

They tumble into bed still locked at the lips. It's not late enough for there to be moonlight, but John takes his time by the light coming from the lamp beside the bed to stare into Sherlock's eyes, cupping his face in his steady doctor hands, brushing his thumbs across Sherlock's impossible cheekbones_. ("Improbable, John! They exist, therefore they are possible.")_

John preps Sherlock carefully, twisting his fingers just so in order to bring Sherlock pleasure but not applying enough pressure to push him over the edge. He insists that Sherlock ride him since it's been so long, so he can control the speed, and Sherlock straddles John's lap without protest, lowering himself down until they're joined at that most intimate place.

It's tender and sweet and perfect, until John runs his hands up Sherlock's back.

* * *

"I don't see why you had to stop," Sherlock whines for the fourth time. "It was going fine."

John is pacing at the foot of the bed, still fully nude, not paying his flagging erection even the slightest attention. "Christ, Sherlock, of course you bloody don't! But other people have moral consciences, you know, where _giant fucking scars on their partner's backs are involved_!" He whirls to face Sherlock. "I'm going to put on the kettle and you're going to put on a dressing gown and come out to the sitting room, and we're going to _talk_."

Ten minutes later, the two men are sitting in their respective chairs, sipping their tea and steadfastly not looking at one another.

When John speaks, his voice is low and full of sorrow. "Why didn't you tell me — when you came back? Did you still not trust me to know these things about you?"

"You didn't take well to my return," Sherlock points out, his gaze fixed on the skull on the mantel. "I wasn't sure what your reaction would be to find out that my time away hadn't been spent idly."

"About that," John begins, then pauses. "What exactly happened while you were away?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and says, "Moriarty had three snipers on the people he knew I would miss most the day I — when I fell. One on Lestrade. One on Mrs. Hudson. One on —" his Adam's apple bobs "— one on you."

His voice cracks multiple times as he relates the events that had happened during the two years he'd been away.

When he finishes retelling the story, John is closer than he had been before — perched on the armrest of Sherlock's chair. His figure is blurry, and it's only when John reaches out and brushes his cheek that Sherlock even realises his vision is impaired because he's crying. How dull of his transport to show visible evidence of his inner emotions.

He looks up at John and is shocked to see tears forming in the doctor's eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John chokes, "I had no idea you Fell to save Mrs. H and Greg and — and me."

"I would do anything for you," Sherlock says, almost as if he'd just realised it.

Then they're kissing again, and John takes Sherlock back to bed and they pick up where they'd left off. As they cling together in the afterglow, John whispers, "I think I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock is asleep, but even John knows by this point that if he were awake, he would say, "And I you, John Watson."


End file.
